Epilogue
by Colvine
Summary: An obituary for the Lone Wanderer, through the eyes of the people who knew him. A continuation of Humanity, so you should read that first of you want this to make sense. Hints of past Harkness/OMC.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Well, I do own a copy of Fallout 3.

**Warnings:** Keep in mind that this is a fanfic of an M-rated game. So, swearing, violence, drug use and sexual themes are possible. Most of them are probable, too.

An obituary for the Lone Wanderer, through the eyes of the people who knew him. A continuation of Humanity, so you should read that first of you want this to make sense. Also, past Harkness/OMC is mentioned so, y'know, don't freak out if that bothers you.

**Epilogue**

James Hargrave

"I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say to him. I fiddle with the Pip-Boy strapped to my wrist (it's too big, and keeps slipping around), and then take it off and hand it to him. I stand around, awkward and unsure of myself, as he turns the dials and presses the buttons very quickly. As soon as he sees Harkness, the dog goes to his side, and nudges his leg. He pets him gently.

C.J. puts a hand on my arm and rubs reassuringly. I sigh and lean into her.

Harkness strokes the band nostalgically and shuts his eyes, looking hunched and old, despite the fact that his appearance has barely changed since I can remember knowing him. Then he hands me back the Pip-Boy wordlessly. I'm so surprised that it takes me a minute to stretch out my hand and take it. Then C.J. elbows me and I take it from him, my throat closing up. I look down as I refasten the worn leather and metal to my wrist, blinking rapidly.

"What happened?" Harkness asks after a while, his voice hoarse and rough as though he hasn't spoken in months. I clear my throat and swallow with difficulty, then clear my throat again. I can't talk. C.J., wonderful woman that she is, understands.

"Well, it's a long story. Do you want to come get a drink with us?" He nods, slowly, looking shell-shocked almost. We walk to the Weatherly together, the dog following sedately as he has since yesterday, and Harkness takes a seat almost immediately, looking like he needs the support. The dog curls up around his legs and gives him a breathy whine. He bends down to stroke him softly. James comes over to greet us jovially, but then notices my expression and freezes. "What? What's happened?"

"He's… he's gone," I croak. His face falls, if possible, even further, and his grip on the bar top becomes so tight that his knuckles turn white. "God. I knew it had to happen one day, but…" he looks over at Harkness, understanding blooming in his face. "Shit. What're you drinking? On the house."

I expect my face twists bitterly. "Hah. Water, actually. Straight from the fucking Potomac." He looks at me in wary confusion, and I sigh. "Come sit with us and I'll explain." He nods, grabs a few bottles from behind the counter and follows me.

I sit down across from Harkness and curse internally. I knew, theoretically, that this would probably happen someday, but I can't help but wish that it hadn't been so soon. "You know that he had decided to find his father a few months ago, but found only his notes. And then he followed him into a Vault with a crazy man running things, and busted him out." Harkness nods here, his eyes shadowed. Maybe there's more to that story than I know. At this point I'm mostly telling the story to get Bryan up to speed, although I'm sure he met the other James for a moment or two.

"And then he came back here to fetch Dr. Li, and then me and C.J. went with him to help clear out the Memorial so his father could start up his crazy project again." More accurately, I decided to follow him and wouldn't be dissuaded (though he had to save my ass more than a few times), and C.J. came along because 'she loves me too much to let me get myself killed.' Her words, not mine. "We got to play errand-boy and mechanic for a while, and then the facility was almost up and running. Then the fucking Enclave comes in and screws it all up. They shoot the other James," that's the way I always refer to him, "and almost killed us. He was… that was one of the only times I got the chance to save _his _ass, instead of him saving mine. The Brotherhood of Steel decides to help us, but they aren't quite helpful enough.

By this point, Bryan is shaking his head in amazement. This is where things get new to Harkness as well, although I'm sure he told the android about his plans before he left. "We still have to journey through Little Lamplight and the irradiated underground to fetch them a G.E.C.K., whatever the fuck that is. And we met the only nice Supermutant I've ever seen, along the way. She's living in the library now, of all places. Then the Enclave shows up again and stun-bombs us.

I don't remember what happened after that for a while," that's a lie, but neither of them need to know what the Enclave tried to do to get the code from us before they realized that we really didn't know. "And then, as usual, he shows up and saves the day. And takes down an enclave base while he's at it.

Turns out, in case you're wondering, that President Eden was a machine." I glance over at Harkness, unsure of how he'll take this. "And he gave us a serum or something, to put in the purifier when we activate it, to kill everything with a mutation. But that happens slightly later." My fingers travel along the outside edge of the Pip-Boy's strap.

First, I'm sure you noticed the huge-ass robot lumbering across the Wastes yesterday, shooting the shit out of the Enclave soldiers? Well, he belongs to the Brotherhood of Steel, who was helping us make our way to the Purifier in the Memorial. Then we got inside, shot down a few more people, most of them with fancy guns," here I gesture towards the well-maintained plasma rifles that both C.J. and I are carrying, "and we finally make it to the purifier. But it turns out that the facility was about to overload, and had to be activated immediately, despite the fact that the radiation levels in the chamber were almost immediately lethal.

Harkness shuts his eyes; he knows how this story ends, now. "We all offered. Said we'd draw straws or something." I'm talking haltingly, now, having trouble getting the words out. "He ignored us. Gave me some things to give to people, said goodbye, and walked into the chamber." I take a deep, shuddering breath, and continue. "He entered the code, and he didn't enter the mutation killer. He gave us all a chance to work it out ourselves, I guess. Didn't want to play God."

"It worked. Once the purifier has started to work, the water in that river will be as purer than the stuff you drink here. Soon I expect you'll be hearing about it from Three Dog, how yesterday the 'Lone Wanderer from the Vaults' sacrificed himself for the people of the Wasteland. But I thought you should hear it from us, first."

I'm done. I don't know what else to say. There is so much to say about him, it's ridiculous, but Harkness knows it all already, and Bryan doesn't need to.

Harkness' voice interrupts my contemplation, and I look up at him. "Thank you. For telling me and for giving me the message." I don't remember giving him a message. It must have been in the Pip-Boy. "You should talk to your parents. I expect they are worried for you." I have to bite down on a scoff. I doubt my mother is even sober enough to notice that I'm gone, and she certainly doesn't miss me if she _has_ noticed that I'm gone. I fiddle with the Pip-Boy absently, then realize that I've been doing it throughout the retelling and force myself to stop.

C.J. nods gravely though. Her parents aren't happy that, after all the work they did to get to Rivet City, one of the only safe places in the Wastes, the first thing their daughter does is run away from it. They blame me for that, and I have to say, they're probably right. She looks like she's going to visit them, and in a rare moment of tactfulness, I decide to bugger off for a while and let her deal with them on her own.

Harkness is walking off already, walking like he's underwater. I want to fix it, I want to console him, but at the same time I want _him_ to make _me_ feel better.

I'm having trouble grasping the fact that he's gone. Really gone and never coming back.

I never thought he _could _die, strange though it sounds. He was… different. He wasn't one of us. He came from nowhere, emerged pristine and unmarked from a Vault, and I never thought that the Wasteland would be able to claim him. I always sort of thought that he'd leave on his own terms, whenever he felt like it. I suppose that's what he did, by stepping into the irradiated chamber. Leaving the Wasteland not marked or changed by it. Now he's gone, in a flash of blinding light and radiation.

I feel like anything I do, anything I could possibly do, will be nothing more than the epilogue to his story.

* * *

C.J. comes back from meeting with her parents to find me sprawled across the bed (it's more of a cot, really) in the tiny, two-room apartment we share when we stay in Rivet City. She sighs and shrugs off her long, heavy leather jacket, removes her small gun from its familiar place at her hip, and bends down to un-strap the knife from her leg.

Then she falls listlessly onto the bed beside me. I shift over so she doesn't fall off and drape an arm around her shoulder, and she rests her hand on my chest. I'm content just to sit there, idly stroking her arm with my nose buried in her surprisingly soft hair. She curls close to me and whispers, "You know I love you, right James?" I'm speechless for a second, the way I'll probably always be when she says that to me.

"Yeah, I do," and I tug her just a little bit closer.

And I'm struck once again with the strangeness of it; that this girl, this woman, would decide that I'm the one she wants, that I'm the one she'll spend her life with. That she would leave behind safety, and her family, and instead wander the Wastes with me, the good-for-nothing son of Rivet City's resident drunk, and god-only-knows who else. Obviously she's good at living out there, or neither of us would still be alive. And obviously she enjoys or at least tolerates it, because she's still with me. But still, it amazes me sometimes, that I have her.

"It was… God, it was five years ago, almost, that he first turned up, wasn't it?" she says a while later, sounding like she's lost in fond memories. "And he was about five years older than us, so we're about the age that he was then. God. He was really… young, wasn't he?"

I reply to her, my voice quiet and pensive. "I guess. I never really thought of him as being young, or tired, or scared, or any of that. He was always just, you know…"

She sighs again. "Yeah, I know what you mean. He was too big, too… larger-than-life for normal, human things."

"It's not fair. Any one of us in that room would have gone in there for him in a second, but he did it himself. And now he's gone. It's so strange that he's gone. I keep waiting for him to walk around the corner and say 'just kidding!' or something. He can't just… die. It's not fair. I would have died for him! Why wouldn't he let me?" I expect there are tears on my face. I can feel my eyes burning, my chest constricting warningly.

She rubs my chest comfortingly. "Because he knew that I still need you. Look, you know _why_ any one of us would have died for him? Because he's the kind of person who goes into the chamber himself, even when we are all willing to do it for him. You know what I mean?" I nod, wiping the wetness impatiently from my face with my knuckles. She pushes my hand out of the way and smoothes the trails away gently with her thumb.

"Yeah, I know. It's just… I'll miss him." My throat closes up again, and I shut my eyes. She keeps stroking my face, though my cheeks are dry. "I know. I'm sorry. I'll miss him too…" and many variations on that theme are murmured comfortingly into my ear. I pull her closer, inexpressibly glad to have her here next to me.

* * *

We travel the Wasteland completely unscathed for the first time I can remember. I think that everything and everyone is just so amazed by the water – the clean, pure water - that they aren't even bothering to attempt violence. Not even the Raiders. Jesus.

The dog came with us, though I'm not sure why. He's quite old, the fur on his face and the scruff of his neck beginning to turn grey, and I think it's about time for him to stop travelling. Maybe he'll stay with Harkness in Rivet City. That'd probably be good for both of them.

C.J. and I have travelled around D.C., giving messages and sometimes things to the people that he had met. Three Dog has his hands on the story now, and everyone in the Wastes knows about him. What he did, and how he died. They don't know who he was, though. I feel like I'm one of the few people who can make that claim truthfully, and it consoles me a little. That means that we, thankfully, don't have to tell people the whole story, just the small details that Three Dog got wrong or ignored.

They don't seem really distraught by his death, most of them. It's like they saw it coming, knew that someone who obviously didn't belong here wouldn't stay for too long, and they hardened themselves against it or something.

I should have done that, but I couldn't. I couldn't, and now his absence is like a gaping, empty spot in me, a small but essential part of the machine that's missing.

One of the notes in the stack of small scraps of paper, covered in his strange, meticulously neat writing and bound tidily with a spare bit of twine, one of those notes is for me. I know it is. I saw my name on it, and it isn't for the other James (his father). It's for me, and I cannot bring myself to open it. I'm afraid to read it, though I don't know why. Delivering the letters is like a kind of release, a way to sort of let him go. Maybe when they're all gone I'll read mine.

We've delivered notes to some strange and often quite remote people, and I am amazed by how far he had traveled, where he had been and what he had done.

Right now we're delivering something to the ghoul bartender in Megaton. Gob. I'd met him once or twice before, when I came through here with him (trailed after him in wide-eyed hero-worship, more like). We were near the bottom of the stack by this point. I pull a bundle from my pocket and hand it to him, saying, "He, um. He asked us to give this to you. Before he… you know." Gob nods and undoes the knot holding the package together. A key and two pieces of paper fall onto the counter.

I see the muscles working in his jaw (ghouls have always fascinated me a little more than they repulse me), and think I can see him mouthing the words 'thank you.' Then he looks up and rasps, "Thank you both. For bringing me this." I'm embarrassed to see tears in his eyes.

"You're welcome," I say quickly, looking down at the contents of the package. "What's it for?" I ask, gesturing to the key. C.J. elbows me, and I add belatedly, "If you don't mind telling me."

"It's for the house. He… he gave it to me," the ghoul states, sounding as if he barely believes it himself. I smile at him, not sure what to say. "Good. We hope you do well with it, and find nothing but good fortune. Good-bye," C.J. declares, after enough time has passed that the silence is beginning to sound strange. We leave the bar, not sparing a glance for the owner, Moriarty, who makes me uneasy.

We leave the city soon afterward, and I wouldn't mind if I never returned. It is… it _was_ his home, and all it does is remind me of him. But the same night, I finally read the letter. It's very short, but then he never spoke much before, either.

_Hey kid_, it begins. _If you're reading this, I've had to do something I'd rather not. I'm glad that I got the letters to you, at least. Thank you for delivering them, it means (meant? It's really fucking weird writing a letter that you know will only be read posthumously) a lot to me, and maybe it'll mean something to the people who get them, too. _I hear his voice in my head as I read his words.

_I don't really know what to say to you, except that I'm glad to have met you, to have been a part of your life. You certainly made mine better. _I have to swallow a few times, around a lump in my throat that's growing every second.

_You know, I'm always amazed by how much you have grown since I first met you. I don't know if this is strange of me to say, but I'm really proud of you, proud that maybe I had a part in helping you become the man you are. You have been like the brother I'd always wanted. _

_So thank you, James, and goodbye. _My eyes are burning, with hot, salty tears, but my mouth is twisting into a smile.

C.J. is walking beside me in the dark and deserted subway the next day, one hand resting on the pistol strapped to her side and one hanging by her hip. Impulsively, feeling far too alone and empty and hollow, I reach for her hand, hold it in mine desperately. She looks at me and I glance over sidelong. She smiles and squeezes her hand, and I feel a little bit less alone.

And I am moving forward, always moving forward. And now someone is holding my hand, and walking into the future with me.

* * *

I liked where the previous story ended, but I wanted the LW to find peace with his father one day. And then, of course, he would have to die, and I wondered how people would react to his death, so this was born. I'm thinking of doing Harkness next, but I think that may take a while.

Colvine


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Well, I do own a copy of Fallout 3.

**Warnings:** Keep in mind that this is a fanfic of an M-rated game. So, swearing, violence, drug use and sexual themes are possible. Most of them are probable, too.

An obituary for the Lone Wanderer, through the eyes of the people who knew him. A continuation of Humanity, so you should read that first of you want this to make sense. Also, past Harkness/OMC is mentioned so, y'know, don't freak out if that bothers you.

**Epilogue**

Harkness

I knew. I don't know how, or when, but I felt it. He's gone, and I am terrified. Because I'm never going to see him again.

He is human, after all, and I am… not quite. Not quite anything. I wasn't born, I was _made_. And so while other people get to dream of afterlives and heavens and returning to Atom, I don't even know if I _can_ die; I have no idea what might happen to me after.

I'm terrified and I'm distraught and grief and loneliness and anger are clawing their way up my throat, trying to smother me, trying to consume me.

I don't know what to do!

James is holding something out, his expression expectant. I see his Pip-Boy, overlarge in James' hands, and have to bite my cheek to control myself. Everything of his provokes vivid memories of the happiness that we had - that I will _never have again _- and I don't think I can take it. I do, however, take the Pip-Boy and download all the files into a storage device of my own. I want to keep the Pip-Boy myself, but I don't think I could stand the memories it conjures up, and James is looking at it with a desperate sort of longing on his face.

I sigh and hand it to him, wondering whether I'll regret my act of kindness. I see the joy and surprise on his face and decide that maybe I won't. The dog nuzzles my leg, and I rub his head sadly. His eyes look like mine probably do – desperate and confused and bereaved.

James and C.J. walk with me to the bar (the Weatherly, because the Muddy Rudder has gotten worse, not better), and tell me what exactly happened to him. It is just typical of him to go martyr on me. I guess that once I stop feeling hollow - a giant gaping hole in the middle of my chest, threatening to pull me into the hungry, cavernous darkness - I will be glad that he left me for something so worthwhile. Right now, though, I'm just glad that I haven't broken down yet.

I thank them both, hollowly, and leave the Weatherly. The dog follows me. I walk down the hallway - I smiled at him, and made him trip over his own feet there; held him there for a few long moments when he didn't come back when he said he would, right there - and through the stairwells - he sat on that stair patching himself up after finding Pinkerton in the bow; we kissed in the darkness behind this staircase - both far too full of moments in time, frozen and crystallized in my memory.

I shut the door behind me and have to shut my eyes and lean into a wall. He would stay here, with me, when ever he was here, which was more and more often lately - and never, ever again – and I can see evidence of him, all over the room, in little things.

A disassembled gun of his on my table; a pair of boots shoved haphazardly under the cabinet, which is full of his clothes as well as mine; his coat hanging by the door next to mine; his books sitting on my shelf and the table beside my bed, with his favourite sunglasses.

And the bed, god, the bed. Bigger than the one I would have had if this was a room just for me. I remember the sex, of course. Fast and hot and heavy, slow and soft and loving, and everything in between. Worse than that, I remember the nights when we would sit up and talk, or not, and he would lay there beside me. I remember waking up to him, too many times to count – not nearly often enough, never enough – and it's too much, it's not enough, it _isn't fair_, and I can't breathe. I can't see; my eyes are too full of tears and visions of the past. I can't hear anything but his voice that I'll never hear again, can't feel anything but his touch that will never touch me again…

I would have continued, following a tight downward spiral of loss and despair, but the dog licks me across the face (am I sitting on the floor?), repeatedly, and whines pathetically. I sit up and stroke his back absently.

I suppose I should read the little message that he left for me. I'm afraid to, though. I don't really know why.  
Ignoring my little insecurities, I plug it into the fixed up terminal sitting in the back corner of the room. All the message says is, _Look in my coat pocket_.

I frown, perplexed, and walk over to the coat hanging from the wall near the door. I feel through the pockets, and I don't find anything initially. Then I search through the inside pockets, and pull out a piece of old, thick paper, with meticulous, Vault-neat writing on it, folded around a ring on a chain. I run the chain through my fingers as I read the letter.

_I love you. _

_I don't think I said that enough. I don't think I could ever say it often enough. I love you, I love you, I love you. _

_I'm afraid sometimes that you don't know that. But I do. I love the way you laugh, and I love your smile, and I love your courage and your kindness and I love who you are. I love your hands, and your face, and everything else about you. It's hard for me to say that, sometimes. But I mean it, all the time. I love you so much that it hurts some days. When I'm away from you, especially._

_And I would have liked to be with you forever, but obviously that didn't work out if you're reading this note. So I don't want you to be unhappy. _

_We both sort of knew this would happen, eventually. But I'm with you, I promise. It's not like I'd leave. I'm still there, somewhere, with you, and I will stay with you always. And when you deactivate, or pass on, or whatever it is you'll decide to do, whenever you decide to do it, I'll be waiting for you. No matter how long you make me wait. So be happy while you're still here, for my sake as well as yours._

_I love you. I wanted to say it again. I love you. It really feels good, actually. I love you. I wish I had done it more, when I had the chance. I love you._

_Good bye._

I shut my eyes against the onslaught of tears threatening to batter down the defences I throw up against them. I fold the note up again, holding it close to my nose and wondering, foolishly, if I could smell him on it. I can't, but when I open my eyes I catch a glimpse of more writing that I had missed.

_p.s. I almost forgot this. The ring is something I wanted to give to you, when I was still… well, when I had the chance. This isn't like a 'never love anyone again' sort of thing that I'm giving you (because who knows how long never-again is for you, anyways?). I just wanted you to have it, to let you know that I wanted to, even if we couldn't._

I can hear his voice in my head, the strange calmness of it, and the way he seemed to speak only rarely, but to ramble hopelessly when he did. I look at the ring on the chain. It has the old, worn look of something made in the Pre-War times, the feeling that many fingers have worn this down to smoothness before you've even touched it. Everything from before has this… weight of history attached to it. Sometimes I don't like that feeling, that hundreds of years of anger and pain and waste are being carried within this one, harmless little thing. But this one feels like it carries love, and safety and deep, secure happiness. It feels like he does – did – sometimes.

I slip the chain around my neck and fasten it at the back, then sigh. I like the way it falls against my chest, the chain thick and heavy enough that I can feel it, and I run my finger over the ring once, absently. It brings to mind, strangely enough, the feeling of having him in my arms.

Instead of the towering, looming onslaught of despair, the knot in my chest loosens, just a little bit. I miss him, I always will. But maybe this isn't the end of the game.

/\/\/\

The second part of the two-shot. Not so sure about that ending. It's so weird that I seem to be writing nothing but guys, despite the fact that I'm a chick myself. On that note, I have to ask; am I chick-ifying them? Tell me if I am, tell me if I'm not, tell me if this rules or sucks. Thanks!

Colvine


End file.
